


Burnt Offering

by hxlios



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Mistletoe, Non-Creepy Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxlios/pseuds/hxlios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles over-thinks a Christmas gift. Everything turns out better than expected. And Peter? Well, Peter's perfect</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnt Offering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pantlesswerewolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantlesswerewolf/gifts).



> merry Christmas to Pantlesswerewolf! My apologies for being unable to do your steampunk idea, but enjoy some Christmas shenanigans instead uvu
> 
> title graciously stolen from one of Catullus' poems. You should go read his stuff, it's awesome and basically Peter Hale in a nutshell.

“Do you think I should get him the book? Maybe it’s too personal? Should I just go with a stocking full of candy? I mean, no one overthinks candy.”

Scott groans, slapping a hand against his forehead and slumping against the bookshelf. Stiles has been browsing for well over an hour, going back to the complete works of Catullus every five minutes.

“Dude! Just get the book! This is weird enough already, I don’t want to think about how hard you’re thinking about Peter’s present.” He says, whine evident in his voice. Stiles scowls at him, picking up the book and shaking it in Scott’s face.

“We’re _friends_. This is what friends do. I think just as hard about your present too, you know.” Stiles says, shoving the book under his arm. He’ll buy it, just in case. And if he doesn’t end dup giving it to Peter, he’ll just keep it for himself. Peter kind of got him a little hooked on the guy.

“Still weird.” Scott mumbles. Stiles rolls his eyes, turning his back on his best friend and marching up to the counter. He pretends the hardcover collector’s edition isn’t going to tap out the last of his paycheck.

* * *

The party isn’t for another couple of days. They’d decided to have it a few days before Christmas, leaving everyone to find time for their families or other friends. And if not, Stiles always had room at the Stilinski table for a few extra souls. That’s not Stiles problem right now, though. The problem is the stupid present glaring at him from a foot away.

Stiles stares at the book on his desk and debates if it’s a good idea or not. He knows Peter will like it, but he also wonders if it looks a bit too considerate, too thoughtful.

He should really just get him candy and an Amazon gift card. You can never go wrong with those, despite how impersonal it looks.

He sighs loudly, spinning around in his chair a few times before tugging on his hair. Why is this even so important? Peter probably won’t even notice how much time he spent trying to find a store that actually sold the stupid thing. It’ll just look like any other nice gift.

He should just give it to him.

He reaches for the thin blue tissue paper scattered around his desk, hesitating for another moment before tucking it under the book. He can put in an effort, at least. He doesn’t have to give it to Peter if he doesn’t want to, but the least he can do is the damn thing.

* * *

When Stiles gets to Derek’s house, he makes a beeline for the tree. His arms are laden with more boxes than he can handle, and he really should have made two trips. But only the weak take more than one trip to get everything inside.

Everyone’s huddled in the kitchen and it looks like Stiles is the last to arrive. He waves off attempts to help – he can manage just fine, thanks very much.

Stiles sets his presents under the tree. He doesn’t write his name on any of them; in a house full of werewolves, it’s really not like he needs to. His scent is probably all over them. He hopes that Peter can’t smell his anxiety on the giftwrap. He’d decided to go through with it. It’d be a waste of money otherwise.

He hadn’t bothered to obscure any of his gifts, figuring that no matter how big a box he put a new set of Mac lipstick in, or how much paper he wrapped around a leather jacket, the pack was still going to know just what he got them before they opened them. It saved him money on wrapping paper, anyway.

When it comes time to open gifts, Stiles perches himself next to Peter, the older man giving him a light smile and draping an arm around Stiles’ shoulder like it belongs there. It’s a show of how far everyone’s come that no one even looks twice at it. Stiles and Peter are a set now. Even Derek’s stopped doing the eyebrow frown thing whenever he and Stiles are in the same space, talking animatedly about literature.

The gift opening process is a bit of a daze. Stiles is so apprehensive about Peter opening his gift, he barely takes note of what he’s getting himself. He recognizes some comics, a hunting knife, and even a cliché red sweater, but none of it really registers. When he picks up a small white box with little more than his name on it, Peter puts a hand over it.

“Save it for later.” He says, smile just on the side of secretive. It makes Stiles’ pulse quicken, the sound of it thudding in his ears as he studiously avoids eye contact with everyone around him. The box is small enough to stuff into the pocket of his sweater – he does so and promptly decides to forget about it.

Peter just smiles at him, reaching to pick up the gift Stiles had gotten him and tossing it onto the couch.

“You’re not going to open it?” Stiles asks. Peter shrugs, gesturing vaguely down the hall and standing.

“Maybe later. Come.” He says, holding out his hand and hoisting Stiles up. He doesn’t let go like he’s supposed to, just pulls Stiles along and over to the back door. It leads them onto the large balcony and Stiles manages to shoot Scott a very confused look before letting Peter tug him outside.

It’s chilly, and he huddles deeper into his sweater, cocking his head at Peter when the man gestures at him.

“Open it.” He says, and it takes Stiles too long to realize what he’s talking about.

“Oh! Right, right.” He mumbles, hand in his pocket and sliding out the little white box. It looks suspiciously like a jewelry case, and Stiles swears to god if it’s some type of joke, he’ll push Peter off the balcony. Peter’s smiling, though, genuine and warm, and Stiles’ face heats up despite the winter air.

It’s not hard to open it – just a gentle tug and the cover pops off, revealing a dull metal chain with some sort of trinket attached to the middle.

Stiles isn’t sure what to think yet, but when he holds up the chain and lets Peter take the empty box from him and set it down on the patio chair, he’s struck by how pretty it is.

It looks dated, old enough that not even shining the metal would return its previous sheen. The ornament looks like a moon, dips and dents in the metal creating a crater-like design. It’s not any bigger than a quarter, but the detail on it is surprisingly elaborate.

“It was one of the few things important enough to our family that we never kept it at home. It was locked up in the vault with all our other heirlooms, but I thought it was time to pass it on.” Peter says quietly, leaning against the balcony and looking off at the treeline.

“Jesus, Peter, I can’t –” Stiles starts.

“You can. It offers protection during a full moon, when many creatures are at their strongest.” Peter says, pushing himself off and taking a step closer to Stiles. “Here, let me.” He says, holding out his hand.

Stiles lets him take the necklace, suddenly conscious of the big bay window they’re standing next to. When he darts a look inside, though, everyone is suspiciously looking anywhere but at them.

Peter doesn’t turn him around, just unhooks the chain and slides it around his neck, awfully close as he hooks it without looking. Stiles is beet red and done trying to pretend he isn’t. Impulsively, he snakes his hands around Peter and squeezes him in a tight hug. It’s over as quickly as it starts, Stiles retreating and rubbing at the necklace around his neck.

Peter’s looking at him, just at him, watching Stiles’ fingers fiddle with the small moon before tucking it under his sweater for safe keeping.

“Thanks, it’s great.” Stiles says honestly, feeling the press of metal in between his collarbones. Peter nods, smile private as he pushes Stiles back through the door.

“I’ve still got one more present to unwrap.” He says, and Stiles' eyes connect with the book sitting innocuously on the sofa. Oh, great, it’s going to look so sub-par next to the necklace, it’s not even funny.

* * *

They’re in Derek’s room, Peter having dragged Stiles in there to open his gift in relative privacy. Stiles isn’t sure why it matters; it isn’t like anybody else is going to know the significance of a stupid little book.

Stiles watches apprehensively as Peter peels back the delicate tissue paper surrounding his book. He’s smiling like he knows exactly what it is, and if Stiles is being honest, Peter’s reaction is a little disappointing. He plays with the charm around his neck, warming the old metal with the tips of his fingers in anticipation.

The moment he gets the paper off, Stiles has the privilege of watching Peter’s face fall into an expression of slack surprise. He turns the book over in his hands, running his fingers against the cover as his gaze snaps up to Stiles.

“How much?” He asks. Stiles swallows, trying to fight the embarrassed smile that’s threatening to take over his face.

“Don’t remember. Wasn’t that much.” He lies. Peter cocks his head, listening for the stutter of his heart. He doesn’t push, though, just moves over to Stiles’ side and cups his jaw.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful.” He says softly, brushing his lips against Stiles’ cheek and pulling away with a gentle smile. Despite his best efforts, Stiles feels a wave of heat creep up his neck as Peter drops his hand. It’s entirely too much and Stiles trips out of his space, muttering something about eggnog and absconding to the kitchen.

He’s glad that Peter had waited until they had relative privacy to open his gift. Stiles doesn’t think he’d have been able to handle the _look_ everyone was bound to give him.

“What am I doing?” Stiles murmurs to himself, scrubbing a hand over his face and trying to clear his mind. Peter’s a friend, just a friend. An admittedly hot friend, but a friend none-the-less. Are friends supposed to offer their thanks with kisses?

The thought alone makes Stiles flush all over again and he shakes the memory out of his brain.

He needs a drink.

* * *

Later, when Stiles is pleasantly buzzed on rum and eggnog (it’s Christmas, let him live), it’s Peter who commandeers his drink away from him and helps him stumble out of the kitchen.

“Stiles.” Peter says softly, voice sounding vaguely muffled. Jesus, he’s drunker than he’d originally thought, and he mostly blames Lydia for the suspiciously high alcohol content. “Stiles, hey.” He says again, a little louder this time, shifting Stiles’ weight and letting him slump a little against the front door.

“Mmh, yeah?” Stiles gets out, blinking up at Peter as a slow smile stretches his face. He feels nice, and Peter is nice. Peter always makes him smile. He slides his hands against Stiles’ cheeks, tilting his head up and forcing him to make proper eye contact. The contact sends a low thrum of heat pulsing through him. It’s a pleasant sensation that makes him giggle quietly.

“I’m driving you home. You can come pick up your jeep in the morning.” He says slowly, articulating his words carefully so Stiles won’t get confused. It’s thoughtful, and it makes Stiles’ grin grow even wider.

“Mhm, whatever you say.” Stiles says absently, pushing off the door and pressing himself up against Peter again. It forces Peter’s hands off his face, but it’s worth it when they wrap around his waist to keep him upright. Perks to being drunk, Stiles supposes.

He hears Peter huff out a sigh, but he doesn’t sound completely exasperated. Maybe it’s just Stiles’ wishful thinking, but he’d like to imagine Peter sounds fond.

They manage to stumble over to Peter’s car, and not for the first time, Stiles thinks that Peter is a total douchebag for owning an Infiniti. These stupid cars cost more than what his dad makes in a year.

Stiles hates that he likes it.

Peter takes the time to make sure he’s buckled in properly, for which Stiles rewards him with a goofy grin and a pat on the cheek. Peter just rolls his eyes, taking an eternity to make it over to his own side.

Stiles dozes on the ride home, slipping in and out of consciousness as the streetlights flash by. The drive is mostly a blur, Peter shaking him awake only for Stiles to realize that they’re parked in front of his house. His dad’s cruiser is in the driveway, and Stiles wonders if he’s still awake.

“You gonna walk me inside?” Stiles asks, struggling to get his seatbelt off and crowing in delight when he finally gets it.

Peter doesn’t answer, just climbs out and opens Stiles’ door for him. It’s weirdly gentlemanly and Stiles coughs to hide his embarrassment. Not to mention the wave of dizziness that hits him once he’s standing. Peter’s there – isn’t he always – one arm around Stiles’ waist and the other shutting his door.

Stiles tugs out his keys while they walk up to the front door, handing them over and letting Peter do the unlocking. He doesn’t think he’s got the fine motor skills to do it himself. Locks are so difficult when you’re intoxicated.

When they manage to get upstairs, it’s Stiles who notices the small green leaves and white berries hanging over his doorway as they cross the threshold. Peter rolls his eyes, propping Stiles up against the doorframe and brushing his fingers against the leaves. He inhales deeply, and Stiles spares a moment to be exceptionally pleased that it’s actually mistletoe and not holly.

 “Erica. It smells like Erica.” Peter states, brow arched like he’s unimpressed. Stiles wonders if his own eyebrows are that expressive. Maybe they are, maybe the Hales have rubbed off on him. Regardless, he’s a little impressed that Erica managed to do this in the few hours he was out and they were both at Derek’s.

“Oh.” He says, because he doesn’t have anything to say to that. All he can focus on is the heat blooming at their points of contact: Peter’s hand on his arm, his knee knocking against Stiles’ thigh. Peter looks down at him sharply, eyes slightly narrowed and looking at Stiles like he’s some sort of puzzle.

Stiles doesn’t know what’s so complicated about this situation, but when he tries to jokingly say, “Maybe you should kiss me. Tradition, and all that,” it falls painfully flat. His voice cracks, and he sounds nervous and the failure alone makes red stain his cheeks. Peter’s still got that look on his face, like he’s trying to figure Stiles out, and it’s making him edgy.

“Can’t go against tradition, can we?” Peter says. Stiles isn’t sure he heard right. He’s about to open his mouth and ask for clarification like the idiot he is, but then Peter’s leaning down, brushing their lips together in the briefest kiss Stiles has ever had the pleasure of participating in, and he’s got nothing to say.

He stares up, eyes wide as Peter draws back with the slightest uptick to his mouth.

“Stiles?”

Hs name floats from down the hall, located in the general direction of his father’s room. Stiles startles, but it’s easily comforted when Peter squeezes his arm.

“Yeah, dad, Peter’s just getting me upstairs safe.” Stiles calls out, watching as the Sheriff’s head pokes out of his door. He glances at Peter and then frowns softly at Stiles.

“You drunk?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have fun?”

“So much.”

“Okay. Don’t forget to drink some water. Thank you, Peter.” He says, ducking back into his bedroom after Peter nods at him. He’s probably going to get a firm talking to about alcohol when he wakes up tomorrow, but for now, it’s just Peter and him again in the dim space of the hallway.

“You should get some sleep.” Peter says eventually. He doesn’t back away though, and Stiles curls his hand into the front of his shirt.

“You should stay.” Stiles says, backing slowly into his room and pulling Peter along with him.

“I can’t.” Peter says, letting Stiles drag him inside before easing the door shut.

“Why not? Please? It’ll be like a present times two. Be festive, stay the night.” Stiles pleads, aware that he’s technically begging but enjoying the low rumble he can feel reverberating in Peter’s chest.

“My control is already stretched quite thin, Stiles.” Peter says slowly, eyes flashing blue and sending a shiver up Stiles’ spine. “I’m not going to take this any further while you’re drunk.” He drawls, voice calm but everything in his body language conveying the fact that he looks ready to attack something. Preferably Stiles.

Stiles purses his lips, frowns at Peter’s neck for a moment before sliding his hands up and around his shoulders.

“Can you at least kiss me?” He asks, cheeks pinking all over again. “For real this time?”

It’s comforting that Peter doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around his waist, ducking down for another kiss and pulling their bodies flush.

Stiles whimpers, standing up on his tiptoes to reach as Peter presses a palm to the back of his neck.

Stiles has kissed like this before, wet and desperate, but it’s never meant this much to him. With Peter, it’s different. There’s passion and want, but also something warmer behind it. Something soft and delicate that Stiles needs to figure out when he’s sober.

For now, he gets to focus on the click of teeth, the snarl Peter lets loose when Stiles nips his lip. The savage bite he gets in return as Peter presses him closer makes his knees a little weak.

By the time Peter pulls away from him, Stiles is dazed and woozy but has just enough cognition left to realize that Peter’s eyes aren’t changing back to normal. The electric glow lights up the space between them, and his eyes track Stiles’ tongue as he licks his lips.

Stiles doesn’t complain when Peter lets go of him this time, just falls onto his bed in a splay of limbs and spends the next five minutes getting his shoes off. When he finally looks back up, Peter is idling by his window, sliding it up and letting the moonlight in.

“We’re gonna talk about this, aren’t we?” Stiles says, sounding almost resigned to it. Peter lets out a soft chuckle, swinging one leg over the sill before answering.

“Yes, and it’ll be easier if you’re not drunk. Call me when you wake up tomorrow. I’ll take you out for lunch.” Peter says, talking half to Stiles, half to the empty street.

“Like a date?” Stiles asks, peeling off his socks and chucking them somewhere into his room.

“If that’s what you’d like.” Peter says carefully. Stiles can’t believe it’s _Peter_ doubting whether or not Stiles wants to date him. He feels like he’s in some alternate reality where he doesn’t have to be the insecure one for once.

“I _would_ like.” Stiles says, falling back against his covers and attempting to wiggle out of his jeans. Peter’s quiet for long enough that Stiles thinks he’s left, but when he looks up, it’s only to find Peter watching the display.

Stiles grins wide, tossing around on his sheets a little more before discarding his jeans completely.

“It’s a date.” Peter says eventually.

“Cool, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Sleep well, Stiles.”

“Night, Peter.”

Peter closes his window on the way out, thankfully keeping out the chill, and Stiles burrows under his sheets. He’s still a little buzzed, but it’s been long enough that’s it’s all fading into a foggy brain and heavy limbs. When sleep claims him, Stiles dreams of little more than hands on his skin and the promise of something more.


End file.
